


Just another lazy day

by krask



Series: Love Against Time [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Headcanon, M/M, Non-Chronological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krask/pseuds/krask
Summary: This is a story about Deacon and Sole Survivor. How they knew each other much longer then they appeared to, how they loved each other and how one of them was horribly betrayed. All of this, however, might've never happened. Or it might’ve happened in another timeline or, perhaps, it will happen in the future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Просто еще один ленивый день](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/304179) by krask. 



> This is an english adaptation (I wrote original in russian). The text contains spoilers from the base game and Far-Harbor DLC.  
> 

Deacon took an unopen but pretty battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tore up the upper corner of the wrapping and finally lighted up his cigarette, first treat of the day. It would be nothing but another calm day.

 

He put the pack back to the pocket of his worn jeans, sat down on a chair and reclined: he just finished his routine morning check and he’d been waiting forward to that relieving moment of rest. While he idly inhaled the smelly smoke, the sun above him was rising quickly. Deacon closed his eyes and afforded himself the luxury of letting imagination flow and take him away to a different world; this place would be not a deserted land but a beautiful forest, shining and embracing the dawn; bright sunrays would gently touch autumn orange leaves, illuminate drops of morning mist in the air and fill the space with soft light. The trees, however, would retreat from the edge of the slope and from up there it would be possible to see how the late autumn sun would shine up the shapes of opulent clouds.

 

He opened his eyes and while holding the cigarette gently between his teeth, he cautiously lifted the sunglasses and looked at the surroundings with certain mistrust and suspicion in his narrowed eyes, trying to combine all this imaginary beauty with what was right in front of him.

 

A minute later he glanced rapidly around and lowered the glasses quickly; and because of the cheeky grin fading on his face it looked like he was taunting himself because of this little trickery that he enjoyed so much but would never admit doing, not to anyone. Finally the cigarette was no more and it left the tickling scratchy feeling down the throat, making Deacon reach for the box of purified water. There was barely enough in there, but the waiting was about to end as well.

 

He had been staying at this little improvised camp for almost a week and a half. It was hidden on a hill to the south-east of Vault 111, far from the roads and with a good view — it was nearly possible to feel safe here: no sniper would find a better position. Although it was highly unlikely for someone other than wild animals or some rare lost raiders to go in this direction. But Deacon always kept his rifle ready just in case. In the middle of a forest full of crackling broken branches and rustling dusty old leaves every sound would’ve been a warning. As for the formidable siren’s howl that was supposed to announce an opening of the Vault, it was hard to confuse it with anything and there was absolutely no chance of missing it.

 

That door stayed sealed for now as it should’ve, but the cherished day was coming closer and closer and so Deacon’s impatience grew. Today was his personal Christmas Eve, the 22th of October, and in the very moment he woke up at his usual 3 a.m., this wistful thought started haunting him — tomorrow.

 

Therefore he decided to spend the last one of these eventless quiet and boring days as he pleased. He took quite enough books and magazines with him on this solitary trip to make the best of his free time, and for the last couple of days he was rereading ‘Swann's Way’ once more, savoring every metaphor.

 

Right now Deacon immersed himself in the book so much that  only sometimes he realized where and when he was and started listening to the morning sounds. After swallowing a few chapters he began to feel peckish and took ‘Sugar Bombs’ out of a duffle bag. For a second there it felt wrong somehow to crunch on a snack while reading classics, but then it came to him that it would not do much harm, especially when those snacks could as well be the book’s age. He dipped his hand into the box, fill the fist full of crispy cereals and dumped them straight into his hungry mouth. ‘Well, that’s ain’t no roasted chestnuts, but no rotten apples either…’ He was shoveling down his small ration with one hand and riffling pages with another, until suddenly he reached carton’s bottom. ‘All good things must come to an end’ — he resumed so pitifully without a second thought, but a moment later he wished he didn't.

 

‘It is not the same thing. This time everything could be different, you’ll never know.’ — he was making an argument in his mind’s eye, and dark eyebrows above the mirror surface were frowning for no apparent reason. ‘He could be different this time around. Or it could happen like the other time when he…’ — Deacon shuddered, because this nasty dark feeling stung him somewhere where his heart should’ve been, — ‘didn't make it out of the vault.’

 

His dry lips got distorted by a crooked smile: ‘Oh well, that wouldn't be so bad… At least I wouldn't get hurt. That’s totally the most important thing in the world…’ He suddenly realized that this whole time he had been staring at the empty box in his hands and now all he could think of was to throw it the fuck away. Deacon took a deep breath, shook his head and barely managed to overcome that will.

 

‘May be I should’ve read something nice and funny today, like ‘Romeo and Juliet’ or something…’ — he meant to sound sarcastic to ease the tension, but instantly felt his attempt failing. ‘And you can’t even say that it sounded better in your head, can you, hah? … Yeah, now we’re talking…’ — he started ripping apart the poor carton and didn’t exactly care enough to remain dignified and calm and pretend like he didn’t use it to vent his anger.

 

Despite all his effort, the thought didn’t just stop there, it rolled down the road, connecting his memories in some peculiar way and mysteriously it ended up in a beautiful picture. That was a magnificent view of a starry night they observed together from the top of the Bunker Hill Monument, hiding away from the rest of the world. But even though the sky looked amazing, this little town seemed too safe to be true and it was making him more and more anxious by the minute. Thankfully, spooning made him relaxed, warm and fuzzy, and while luxuriating in the loving arms, Deacon let it slip how it used to be his favorite spot, and he liked being alone here, having a smoke and watching a sun go down, completely exhausted after a long trip with a caravan, sipping a shitty, but stiff drink from Savoldi and looking through greasy pages of ‘Beware The Man Handler’. This moment of pure honesty did not go unpunished: from that night on and for at least a few weeks after he was called only _The Man Handler_ , pronounced by his cruel-hearted beloved as ironically and showy as possible.

Thinking about that night made him feel that sweet and fuzzy sensation deep down again, and he almost forgot wanting to abandon it all a few minutes back. No, he must continue.

 

Distracted from heavy thoughts, Deacon got up and put the duffle bag on his shoulder: it was time for patrolling this place. That was also a chance to find some snacks left behind by a forgetful raider (or by one lonely Mister Handy, who was wandering around Sanctuary Hills dusting and moving things around, watering flowers, handling wild mongrels in a polite, but slightly arrogant manner, seemingly oblivious to everything else, the poor old guy had nowhere near enough perception to notice Deacon sneaking nearby). In addition to the above, apart from mole rats and radroaches, in these parts you could only meet bloatflies, and if you get really lucky, a couple of very unhappy bloodbugs: they would even look kind of cute with their big sad beautiful eyes and wide spread wings, if not for some amount of inborn hunger for brutal murders.

 

Deacon went southeast, down to the river (that has gone down so much, it didn’t deserve to be called that anymore) just behind Sanctuary Hills. The water seemed so close and so pure, but he knew that drinking it was no safer than a french kiss with a feral ghoul. Not that he had experience to back that up. He smiled with a corner of his mouth, imagining the answer he could get to that.

 

Maybe he even will, if tomorrow... No, he shouldn’t make any assumptions. Whoever survives this time, whether it would be the husband or the wife, he would treat them the same. Almost the same. He would be equally impartial and friendly, yes. Because if it will be _him_ again, there would be no guarantee, none whatsofuckingever, that it wouldn’t be like the last time, when after everything they have been through, all the stupid promises, jokes, confessions, and sex, he betrayed him and joined the Institute, now would there be?!

 

Deacon was filling one of the empty water cans with this absolutely disgusting fluid and suddenly noticed some ripples: a tiny bloodbug was playing near the shore. ‘Oh, isn’t that sweet?’ — amused, he smiled and backtracked a bit, trying not to make a sound, continuing on his way southeast to the Red Rocket and regretting (not for the first time), that there was only one way to go for a walk from this temporary home of his.


	2. Chapter 2

After the distance between him and the vicious little thing became more or less safe, Deacon stood up and started to walk faster, casually looking around if anyone was there to notice him. There was no one, business as usual. In case there was, his padded blue jacket would certainly help to avoid suspicion.

Knowing all the right trails, getting to the Red Rocket was easy: as always, the dog, wagging the tail happily, was running towards to greet him. He was about to land his dirty paws on Deacon’s already not so clean outfit, but simple ‘Sit' was enough to change his mind: he froze and began waiting for the treat. That perfectly trained dog was probably the last hope for the post-apocalyptic world without manners. Mostly because he wasn’t from this world, at least not originally. Deacon kidnapped, or, preferably, liberated him before the War. It was by all means a hard loss for the owner, but if he knew back then, what was coming, he could’ve thanked him. The others certainly would’ve…

‘And now, so many years after, we’re waiting for him again, aren’t we, puppy?’ — he petted the lonely dog, gave him some crispy squirrel bits, and lit a cigarette while enthusiastic champing and crunching began. ‘I wonder if he knows what day it is. Is he as worried as I am?’ — Dogmeat stopped destroying the bits for a second and looked back at him with sparkling eyes. — ‘If he is, he’s the best liar I’ve ever met, and that says something’.

Dogmeat was just as carefree and cheerful the day it all went down. The three of them just got back to The Last Plank after another visit to the Acadia; it was one long walk, but Deacon had found it impossible to get his companion to say a word during the whole journey. Dogmeat was probably more talkative than him. After a drink or two at the bar it became clear, what occupied his thoughts all that time:

— What if it’s true? What if I’m a synth?

— At first it seemed that his anxiety was superficial, so Deacon answered with a joke:  
— Hey, what if I am a synth too? We can be The Synthetic Death Bunnies! Best synthetic buddies ever synthed!

The look he gave him was so unambiguously unimpressed, it was obvious the joke didn’t work:

— Sure, bunnies… Can’t you just pay me to pretend like it’s the first time I hear this?

— Oh, come on... I added some new details to it! But if you’re serious, I just can’t believe that after all I’ve taught you DiMA so easily got in your head. You do know he’s playing you, right? Ignore the verbage and look at what he’s done: lied, killed, replaced a human being with a synth, damn it! And that’s exactly what he’s asking of you as well! Supposedly for some higher purpose, but you and I know better, don’t we?

At that time it seemed like he convinced him, solved whatever crisis he had inside of him: he looked like he’s decided something. To comfort him and decrease the level of pathos in the room Deacon added with a lower voice:  
— You know, I would still love you, even if you were a synth.

The smile he received for that was as stunning as on some old magazine covers. It knocked head off so much, the words to follow it didn’t seem important:  
— Listen, I’m gonna have to travel alone with Dogmeat by my side, OK? Blow off some steam, shoot feral ghouls, go fishing, all the usual...

They use to travel separately every once in a while, so it didn’t raise any suspicion in him back then. It was only helpful for the relationship to have some time apart.

— Sure, I’m going to check in with Dez, she might need me by now. But remember, you are my favorite meat shield, buddy.

— Sure, and you, what, my favorite meat sword?.. Alright, you baited me, didn’t you ...

 

Remembering it now, Deacon couldn’t stop blaming himself for missing the signs, but he was too deep in love to notice anything.

Here at the Red Rocket, sitting comfortably, with Dogmeat to watch guard, there was time to relax and open a book again, which was exactly what he did. The old world seemed so amazing, he was desperate to live in it. He got sucked inside the novel, and was only peeking out for an occasional sip of Nuka-Cola. Dogmeat had found himself a teddy bear and played with him quietly in the corner. The long, lazy, dull day...


	3. Chapter 3

Few hours later Deacon started to feel peckish. He closed the book with an old dried up label from a can of Pork n' Beans. The pork was gone long time ago, unfortunately so, but there was just enough tatos and carrots to make some soup for him and Dogmeat.

 

He cleaned the dishes after dinner: he could not leave any signs of him ever being there: everything should stay exactly as before; however he could not resist placing some additional caps and stimpacks, just in case this screw-up would manage to hurt himself off the mole rats.

 

Doing all that made Deacon remember Tinker Tom, and how his conspiracy theories always cheered him up. The most hilarious of all was, of course, how he would be absolutely right is his craziest suggestions and downright wrong in others. Deacon usually told him that he would never pick a universe where Tom would know about his connection to the all the other ones, but truth be told, he was yet to see a universe where this genius would not be so paranoid. In the end, he was amazing (and useful) being exactly who he was.

 

What Deacon would certainly not choose was the universe where Tom and every other agent was dead. He had to go through all of that before, but he hoped very much that he would not have to do that again.

 

That day he worked undercover in Diamond City, the usual job. One of the guards sometimes mentioned The Freedom Trail (and was very weird about it), so he had to find out, what was it that he knew and how. He was patrolling the market and noticed a familiar face near the bar stand: some whacko was trying to have a meaningful conversation with Takahashi. That was a coded message: ‘Change your disguise and meet me outside the city’. Deacon eagerly followed this ‘strong recommendation’ without giving it much thought and left the city, where he saw his beloved.

 

There was no tail to shake off and no witnesses to beware of, so Deacon ran straight to his arms: after all this time apart he had no words to say before the kisses. However, much to his surprise and disappointment, the greeting he was given was cold as ice. The face in front of him showed no love, and it made him feel terrified:

— It’s over, Deacon. There is no Railroad.

 

He still remembered that feeling like his heart fell of a giant cliff:

— What? What the hell are you talking about? The Institute?

 

— Not really... Actually, yes, that’s quite right. It’s me. I killed every last one of them. Desdemona, Carrington, Tom, everyone.

 

The way he was saying it, slow and calm, he made it seem unreal, but the darkness in his eyes showed differently. When Deacon spotted the Courser behind his back, who walked in their direction looking relaxed and dangerous in their patrolman sunglasses, he had no more doubts.

 

— You? But why?

 

— You probably don’t remember, but I used to worry that I might be a synth. But now it’s all clear to me. Everything must be simple: synths aren’t humans, they’re machines. They have a purpose to serve humanity. When you blur the line between the two, you and the likes, you only screw yourselves over. You help to destroy humanity. The common folk, like Kasumi, whom you say you want to defend, soon they wouldn’t be able to understand the difference.

 

The Courser was close, and Deacon took out a Stealth Boy:

— So you lied to me, hah? All that moral high ground…

 

He didn’t remember much clearly after that. He didn’t remember how he managed to kill them both, but... there was blood. The only thing he remembered was his eyes... Eyes of a man who broke his heart. Bulging.

 

But today, today he tried to put all that behind him. Or was it ahead. It’s just another lazy day. Deacon brushed aside the memories surrounding him like festering bloatflies.

 

He wanted him to be… Just be. To just wake up tomorrow from his long sleep and go on a quest again to find his son. Alone, not from this world, confused at times, but not giving up, he may really change something here. And in all his wanders Deacon would always keep an eye on him from afar, forgetting about treacherous sun glares from the glasses during the day, guarding his sleep during the night.

 

Perhaps there is an indefinite amount of parallel universes out there, and time is anything but linear, but love... Love never changes.


End file.
